The Cost of Life
by IronResolve
Summary: What if the Galactica fleet was not the only group to escape the Fall of the Colonies? What would those people be like, how would they survive The Fall, how would the Cylons react to a second fleet, and what impact would their survival have on the Galactica? This story follows the original time line and events until shown otherwise. Rated M because of what war is.
1. Chapter 1 - SRRS

Author's Notes:

I want to thank Decoherer for not only beta reading Episode 1 but giving me plenty to think of about when writing this story. All your help has been greatly appreciated.

Disclaimer: This is a fan-work. I am not making money from it or producing it for monetary gain. I have none of the copyrights to any materials in the Battlestar Galactica series or related works including Razor, Caprica, or Blood and Chrome. If requested by the rights holders, this story will be taken down.

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_Episode 1 - The Last Day_

_Part 1 - SRRS_

Today was turning into a more interesting day than Commander Terrence Noyes had been expecting. The printout of the wireless transmission in his hand was the latest addition to an already busy day. He finished reading it before looking up to the young male communications staffer that had handed it to him.

"Give me ship-wide and broadcast to our deployed crews," Noyes said to the staffer who promptly nodded, turning back to his station. Hawkish features under a shaved head observed the crew of the modestly sized CIC of the Arion already diverting their attention from their consoles. He subtly adjusted his dark grey uniform, smoothing out what felt like a wrinkle around the waist. Cut similar to a Fleet uniform, the attire had few adornments expect for the twin United Salvage and Repair Corporation "USRC" corporate logo patches just below the shoulders, a star-burst pin on the left breast indicating his status as Commander, and a patch with the name "Noyes" directly below it. His professional staff were dressed similarly while the operational crew wore a dark brown version.

Noyes picked up his wired phone from the small up-lit central console and waited for the ship-wide announcement notification tone to pass. "All hands, this is the Commander," his voice echoed out around him. "Colonial Fleet has requested the Arion investigate a loss of communications with the Armistice Station. All personnel not assisting Colonial Mover 13 with engine repairs are to report to Ready Alert stations for possible jump and SRRS operations." The sound of the phone being placed back down onto its rest was followed almost immediately by the medium volume Ready Alert warning tone echoing through the ship.

"First Fleet work in awhile," Noyes quietly commented to no one in particular. A small cluster of monitors descended from the ceiling coinciding with the primary dradis array going active. He scanned the images briefly before asking, "Deployed ship status?"

"Foreman Myers reports two of the three repair crew shuttles deployed to C.M. 13 will be finished and return in ten minutes," came the voice of the same young male communications staffer. "Shuttle Two is remaining behind for equipment support of Team Two while they re-fire the engines. We have two Raptors out on standard watch, Raptor C27 for us and C15 for C.M. 13."

"Tell C15 to stay with Shuttle Two until repairs are complete. They should then report to the nearest supply depot to pick up replacement parts and await rendezvous information," Noyes instructed while looking down to the shipping lane chart laid out on the up-lit table. "Tell Witch and Bulls-eye they are on scout duty and to jump to the Armistice Station coordinates immediately. Time to get eyes on the other side."

Sarah Coleus, call sign 'Witch', offered a silent prayer to the Lords that she was finally getting a break from the tedium of her day. She had been circling counterclockwise amidship of the Airon in Raptor C27 for several hours while her navigator Joshua Simus, call sign Bulls-eye, did whatever he usually did at the computer terminals in the rear.

"You'd better have that jump computer working back there, Bulls-eye," Sarah piped over the internal communications frequency in their helmets. While being in flight gear for extended periods of time was expected for pilots, the USRC policy of keeping your helmet on continuously when flying a basic watch pattern was more than slightly aggravating. "I'll have your teeth if the computers are down again. The Commander can have the leftovers."

Joshua looked up to the pilot chairs and responded in a mildly annoyed tone, "The jump computers are ready to go Witch. I was looking at the navigational subroutines this time."

After grumbling something quietly to herself, Sarah switched to the ship-to-ship comms. "Arion, this is Witch. Raptor C27 maneuvering for jump to Armistice Station to investigate loss of communications."

The sound of a young man came back over the wireless. "Arion acknowledges Witch. Send status over wireless after jump. Will be in voice range when you are on the other side. Good scouting out there."

A few simple adjustments of the controls had Raptor C27 pulling away from the Arion. Yawing around had the apparently shrinking Arion and the Coloninal Movers ship visible through her cockpit window. The orientation was entirely at her discretion and nostalgia had got the better of her. No matter how many times she saw the Arion's name placard, she had to remind herself it was not the Valkyrie. 'The assignment she had blown before it started,' a part of her mind bitterly reminded her. While the two ships were of the same make, both Mars-class Battlestars, the Arion was no longer an actual Battlestar. It had been fully decommissioned from the Fleet and retrofit as a private salvage and repair wrecker. Only someone with Fleet experience would notice the subtle differences, mostly missing capital turrets or sealed bulk plating where there should be Viper launch tube exits. The Arion had been her best option 'afterward.' The starkest reminder was the lack of Vipers flying patrol around the ship. Instead the broken Colonial Movers ship floated nearby. To her it was little more than a glorified cylinder covered in deep space shipping containers.

"We are well past safe minimum distance Witch," Bulls-eye said in the same mildly annoyed tone. "Initiating jump to coordinates in five."

"Well, here we go," Sarah said mostly to herself. Seconds later the familiar feeling of going 'down the hole' overtook them both and a brief flash of light displaced humans and machine to another place in space.

"Bulls-eye, what do we have on dradis?" was Sarah's first question on the other side of the jump. She was starting to orient the Raptor to approach the station when something came into her field of view far too close. She did not even have time to think, trained reactions took over her hands on the controls.

The Raptor lurched, all fifty tons of it pitching downward sharply to avoid the sofa-sized rotating metal fragment with bits of wire and conduit hanging out coming for the cockpit window. She had her spot light on a moment later and pointed forward just long enough to visually inspect her path before half-yelling through the internal comms, "_FRACK!_ Josh, _dradis!_ I'm dodging bits here."

"Dradis is showing a large number of small contacts," came Joshua's surprised and perplexed voice. "Come to bearing 53, carom 402. Have a clearing in that direction and some bigger pieces to inspect. Looking consistent with a debris field."

"Already figured that out," Witch said through clenched teeth. She had to roll and pitch her Raptor around a twisted bulkhead man-door on her course before finishing her thought. "Call the Arion and let them know. This is no wireless malfunction."

Chucks of twisted bulk plating, insulation, conduit, glass, and even the odd instrument panel had been more or less disassociated from each other, given some velocity, and sent outwards in various directions. Witch barely payed attention to the sound of Bulls-eye's voice calling the Arion on the wireless as she sent her Raptor snaking and twisting around the larger pieces of debris. She could not dodge all of the smaller pieces resulting in the dull sound of matter bouncing off the Raptor's metal skin and occasionally the cockpit window. All she noticed of the wireless conversation was a delay of several seconds between the end of Joshua's transmissions and the replies from the Arion. The sound of Commander Noyes' voice barely registered about the same time she was able to maneuver the Raptor into the clearing in the debris field. A sweep of her search light towards the station's expected position gave her all the information she would need for the next bit of conversation.

"Witch, Arion Actual. Report," came Noyes' order over the wireless. A hint of irritation in his voice indicated that was probably the second time he had given her that order. Under normal circumstances she might even be concerned about that.

"Arion, Witch," she replied being careful to keep her voice level and professional. "The Armistice Station appears to have suffered massive structural failure and is in numerous pieces. Most of the pieces are moving away from the Station's original position at velocity. A Fleet shuttle has also suffered MSF with half of the ship visibly missing. SRRS operations recommended with Raptors as debris may compromise the shuttles."

Sarah was surprised when she noticed Bulls-eye had moved up, standing next to her to look out the cockpit window. The man would normally never leave his seat in the back except when disembarking. Now he stood beside her with a morbidly curious look on his face visible through his helmet visor, eyes tracking the torn remains of a shuttle moving off to their starboard.

"Witch, Arion acknowledges," came the voice of the young communications staffer with a backdrop of alert tones being picked up on his microphone. "Arion will be jumping in at a range of 10,000 to avoid collisions. The Commander has ordered C27 to jump to the Hercules to request additional Raptors for search operations."

"Arion, C27 acknowledges," came her reply as Bulls-eye moved back to his console for the jump. "Will be jumping when clear of the field."

It took Witch far less time for her to worm her Raptor out of the debris field than she expected. Being able to pick a path with the least obstacles in it likely helped. The Arion was just jumping into dradis range as the sensation of her body being stretched out over took her. The last thought to go through her head before the flash of jump light was she was going to get to see the biggest ship of her life under the most dire of circumstances.


	2. Chapter 2 - Inspections

_Episode 1 Part 2 - Inspections_

If there was one thing Rachel Carmine hated more than some kinds of inspections and audits it was when they came at the worst possible times. That was the thought going through her head as she walked through the Hercules' corridors. She brushed past bulkheads, USRC staffers, and the occasional hissing oxygen processing unit on her way towards the massive port hangar deck staging area.

At least one of the female junior professional staff tried to stop the taller redheaded Rachel with a question in one of the corridors. Typically Rachel would have given the woman and her supervisor an earful for a 'Hallway Question' in the middle of any inspection. That was until she caught the woman looking at parts of Rachel's dark gray USRC uniform well below the collar. At first Rachel thought the staffer was looking at her "R. Carmine" name badge until she realized the staffer's eyes were lingering a little too long. The nickname Big Red had been earned more from her hourglass figure in her youth than from her height. A couple decades of working salvage, a bit of a sweet tooth, and a couple kids had added some extra size to her frame. The current package was apparently impacting the focus and decision making of the woman before her. Rachel answered the question with a smirk and made a point to add an extra swish to her step as she walked away. Middle age had only perfected how she could impact the minds of those that looked her way.

"For a surprise inspection, someone is having fun," came a gruff male voice from behind her with a sarcastic cadence.

"The type of inspection makes all the difference," she retorted with the same smirk on her face.

"Remind me to put a small bonus in that staffer's pay for improving your spirits," the same male voice responded as Rachel turned to face it. "And give her a reminder of how easily wandering eyes can be noticed."

The man standing before her was similarly adorned in a dark gray USRC professional uniform. While Rachel was curvy and tall, this man was wiry and nearly a full head shorter. His brown hair was buzzed and accompanied by a thick full beard. His name badge read "S. Carmine" with a pin in the shape of a wrench crossed by a hammer at an angle denoted his status as corporate CEO. A folder of paperwork and large notepad were tucked under his left arm.

"Still fighting for my attention dear?" she grinned as they fell into step on their way down the corridor she'd been following. "Good. Wouldn't want you going soft on me."

A barely audible mocking grunt could be heard from him before taking a breath and opening the folder. "The only thing that would ever make me go soft is the amount of paperwork I do these days. I started this company to work with my hands, Rachel and I don't mean just writing with a pen."

A slight twinge of concern passed over Rachel's features while both turned the last corner toward the hangar deck's upper catwalk. She could easily see the paperwork in the folder Samuel was reading included the latest dispatch from the Arion's Raptor regarding the Armistice station. "Samuel, you are reading that over for a strategy session as CEO instead of looking for a flight suit correct?"

Both Carmines walked for several moments in silence until Samuel stopped and turned on the catwalk, a longing look in his eyes as he looked down to one of their few Raptors prepping for launch. "I read the reports. With that many pieces flying about they'll be lucky to find any survivors. One more old hammer-man would do that situation little good. The only site-help I could potentially give would be the Cause Investigation."

The activity around the Raptor thankfully distracted both of them before the obvious follow-up question would have to be asked. "Miserable bureaucrats," Big Red all but spit out while looking down to the ship preparing to depart. While crawling with people in USRC attire, at least four people in generic and barely soiled work overalls were getting in the way looking at everything being done. "In the middle of an emergency SRRS operation they still insist on inspecting any and every ship having to take off."

"They're doing their jobs like they are supposed to under rules we agreed to," Samuel replied closing his folder. "We _could_ throw them out of the hangar to speed up the launch. Unfortunately, we would probably lose our special dispensation to operate the Hercules. Not everyone gets to command the biggest ever prototype Battlestar decommissioned into a salvage barge."

"You do like big prizes" Rachel teased him.

Samuel could not help returning her smirk. "Had this class been successful, it would've been the big cousins to the Mercury-class Battlestars and flag officer ships. It even makes the Pegasus, the crown jewel of the Fleet, look small. How could I not like that? Random inspections to ensure we are not carrying fighters or anti-capital munitions is a part of the deal. So is having any ship leaving during an inspection be subject to its own search."

Rachel chuckled as she leaned against the railing. "If only old Lt. Toros could see you now. The Dragon of Deckgang Five saying where a prototype of the Fleet's Battlestars go."

"He would probably say it suits me," Samuel retorted. "Oversized, overambitious, a Condition One pain to keep happily running, and almost never wants to go where you do. I always did enjoy a challenge and a handful didn't I?"

"For your sake I will assume you were talking only about the ship my dear," she replied with a lopsided grin, watching the various hatches closing on four Raptors below.

The deckgang crew was pushing them towards the hanger lifts up to the main landing deck for launch. As much as she might want to continue with their little diversion, the question that had been hanging between them needed asked before they would be interrupted by someone else. "For the Armistice Station's Cause, do you have any thoughts?"

Samuel's next action was one he very rarely did even though it was a simple expression. He frowned, looking out over his crew working around the now mostly empty deck. "With explosions like this there are three possibilities; accident, incompetence, or malice. It should take the search crews a couple days to determine the cause, assuming they're not interrupted."

"The Arion will probably be deployed for two to three weeks on that operation," Rachel commented, turning to face him and leaning her hip against the railing. "All of our wreckers and barges may need extra personnel for additional rotations to cover our normal business. Not to mention the staffing problem we might have if the explosion rattles Fleet and causes them to call up Reserves. We would take a hit on professional and operational staff when we could least afford it."

"More topics for the senior staff and board," Samuel muttered to himself while scribbling on his pad. "Sometimes I wonder if you should have been made the Chief Operations Officer instead of the CFO."

"We get the job done dear," she said, her voice trailing off towards the end as another figure approaching her on the catwalk caught her attention. "Don't look now but the head of the inspection team is walking up behind you. Head to the meeting and I'll take care of him."

With a simple nod the shorter man breezed past her and through a nearby bulkhead door. The suit clad man tried to call after "Mr. Carmine!" only to miss his retreating back. Shifting his attention to Rachel, the man strolled the last few paces up to her. "Does he still think you are helping him duck the inspection work?" he asked in a low and bemused voice.

"Be careful underestimating that man," Big Red warned in a low voice, hair shifting around her. "He has the nickname The Dragon for a reason."

The man simply smiled to her and motioned with an arm back down the walkway. "If you would Mrs. Carmine, I would very much appreciate your company inspecting the old ammunition magazines."

Rachel visibly perked up, the same swagger in her step from earlier with the staffer coming back. "Of course Chief Inspector," she smiled. "Please follow me."

Once again Rachel found herself in the halls of the Hercules, mentally reminding herself how much she hated some kinds of inspections.


	3. Chapter 3 - Reports on the Lanes

_Episode 1 Part 3 - Reports on the Lanes_

Sylvia Percy was bored. Not the sort of bored that came from having nothing to do. Quite the contrary, she had figurative mountains of work that needed to be done. Her boredom came from the list of inane meetings preventing her from getting to work that needed done. The meeting she currently found herself in was no exception, her weekly Report on the Lanes.

Sylvia was a woman of average height but under weight to the point of being spindly. Straight black hair falling down to her shoulders framed her face. Any amount of hair styling made her head look bizarrely out of proportion to the rest of her body. At the moment she was wearing a dark green blazer and matching dress. Being seating in a somewhat stiff desk chair at the end of a small wooden conference table, she kept one of her legs crossed over the other. Around the table sat herself and five members of her staff, every one dressed professionally either in suits or well-paid business attire. The only two indications they were on a Gemenon Liner traveling between Caprica and Tauron was the field of stars visible through three small rounded windows and the only door for the room being reinforced enough to keep air in the rest of the ship should the windows blow out.

"And that brings us to the last two items of the agenda, madam Secretary," said Martin, her Undersecretary of Customs and Inspections. The mousey man actually seemed to enjoy these reports, probably because they afforded him time to talk without thinking too much. "The preliminary inspection of the Hercules and the issue of suspected increased smuggling on the Lanes."

"I would recommend they be brief Martin," Sylvia said, with more annoyance in her voice than she had intended. She purposefully reclined in her chair to appear less intimidating to Martin who was already shrinking down into his seat. "These are matters we have either discussed previously without issue or will need to be addressed in other meetings. The sooner this session is over the sooner they can be properly resolved."

Martin rifled through the papers before him on the table quickly, selecting only two of the sheets. His voice raised in pitch slightly and he hurried his words as he continued. "Of course Mrs. Percy. The preliminary report from the chief inspector aboard the Hercules indicates near full compliance with the USRC's ban on possessing fighter class vessels or anti-capital ammunition. A single multipurpose type ship that could act as a fighter was found aboard but indications are it was being repaired for a paying client. No ammunition violations were found."

"Which is to be expected," Sylvia commented, idly switching which leg was crossed under the table. "Losing that ship would be a blow to the company's profitability and image. Not to mention damaging the political connections that allow them to operate it."

"Quite," Martin acknowledged with a nod, papers shifting in his hands. "Regarding the smuggling increase, the Lanes Police are reporting a near doubling of small multipurpose ships, shuttles, and even freighters being seized for transporting narcotics, contraband weapons, and undocumented travelers over the last three months. While this is concerning, of perhaps greater concern is the use of larger ships for smuggling. Two weeks ago a cruiser-class Knoppox ore freighter was found with over sixty undocumented travelers stashed away in various compartments. There is also suspicion of Chlotic System's botanical cruisers though that investigation is on going. If the situation continues, the Lanes Police and the investigative teams may need additional resources to combat the problem."

"Very well. Have your department draw up revised budget figures and keep me apprised of developments with major corporations," was Sylvia's less than enthusiastic response. "If this issue is spreading among larger companies, the President may need to be notified."

"Since that is the last item, " she said, letting the rest of the sentence hang in the air briefly. Everyone in the room stood when Sylvia pushed her chair back to stand up herself. "Quinn, please stay here for a moment."

The other occupants of the room filed out into the starliner's luxury seating area while Sylvia turned to one of the small windows looking out into the depths of space. When the door closed and she was sure only one other occupant was in the room, she allowed herself a thin smile. "If one of my deputies at Eversun was ever so boring as Martin I believe I would either have him fired or sent to work on the lanes for a couple months."

"Such is him being a political appointee and you the Secretary of Transportation, ma'am," came the voice from behind her. "He is well protected unless his conduct can be proven as substantially worse than boring. Especially with the other issues you are facing."

She turned back from the windows to face the room's other requested occupant. Quinn was of middle age with medium length brown hair salted with strands of white around the neck and ears. His thin beard was trimmed short, the coloration much the same as the hairs on his neck. His gray suit with subtle darker pin striping framed a body a couple stone heavier than would be ideal for his height. While being past his prime physically, he was proving very valuable in the realm of politics.

"To business then," she said while shaking her head. "I wouldn't have expected to need my Deputy Secretary assigned to political damage control this many months after my confirmation."

"The scandal that caused your predecessor to resign gave the Adar administration's rivals all the talking points they could have wanted," the older public servant observed. "Your nomination from a non-Vice Presidential position at Eversun over other candidates with more experience on paper or close connections in the government added more fuel to the fire."

Quinn moved from where he had been standing at the table to the same wall as Sylvia. His eyes occasionally drifted to the field of stars outside the rooms middle window. "Questions that should have been resolved publicly and privately during your confirmation are still circulating in our department and the wider capital. They could be passed off as idle gossip among disgruntled public servants if not for new questions being raised behind closed doors. More half-truths of your time at Eversun continue to leak out. Even Martin has candidly asked other department heads about some of them. My contacts are making progress on the source of the rumors as they are becoming more prevalent. I would expect to have one or more names in the next few weeks."

Despite her best efforts, Sylvia could not escape a sigh. 'From boredom to exasperation,' was her inner thought turning to looking out the window again. "So it is likely to become worse before it can be resolved. Such is politics I suppose."

Out the window she could barely make out the shape of another ship. Watching it for a few seconds showed it traveling towards Caprica. "Find out what Martin has heard as discreetly as possible. His investigators may have their own contacts that would prove useful. And keep an eye on the Chlotic Systems situation. Taking action against the only company in the Colonies with a zoo in space is another headache I would care to avoid if at all possible."

"Of course Madam Secretary," was Quinn's simple reply. Sound bites of children crying over the loss of a flying zoo played on the daily news passed through Sylvia's mind while the door closed behind her. Her moment of solitude was punctuated by a single thought; this position was more than she had suspected in every way. The politics, the ramifications, even the boredom were more intense than she ever expected.


	4. Chapter 4 - Cleaning Up the Zoo

_Episode 1 Part 4 - Cleaning Up the Zoo_

Victoria Holden was enjoying herself despite her expectations to the contrary. Her shorter white hair clung in damp bunches to her scalp and the top of her neck. The lack of color in her hair matched the deep lines around her mouth and the smaller ones around her eyes. The moss green coveralls she was wearing were damp from the humidity and heat of the jungle bio-containment dome she was picking her way through. The brown gardening gloves on her hands had bits of vegetation and damp dirt clinging to them. Her heavy leather work boots were spotted with brown substances that may or may not have been dirt.

"We should be back on the path any moment, Doctor Holden," piped up the young woman in front of her. Dressed in khakis, a green polo with the words "Vivarial Educational Zoo" printed on the upper left, and reasonable work boots, the demeanor of her so called guide had been diminishing steadily for the past hour. Victoria suspected her guide had been picked for this tour based on her perky attitude and ability to move quickly from bio-dome to bio-dome. However, when your company's CEO keeps stepping off the designated tour path to explore the fauna and dig around in the dirt for hours, even the best tour guide can have trouble hiding her frustration. Under different circumstances Victoria would never have put the tour guide less than a third of her age through constant sidetracks and unscripted behind the scenes looks. In this case however the CEO was buying time to make someone else sweat.

"No rush my dear," was the Doctor's simple reply. Nearly back to the stone path, she found herself examining a species of flowering vine crawling up one of the larger jungle trees. "There is plenty left to see in this dome and several smaller ones left to visit if I am not mistaken."

"We should consider giving miss Dorcey a break then Doctor," came another female voice she had been expecting to hear for some time. Victoria's patience had finally paid off.

"Captian Vergus!" Victoria crowed in her best faux excited tone. She leaned in closer to the flowers before her, ensuring she could not make eye contact with anyone. "Or should I call you Regina? So nice of you to join us. I was just about to ask your expert guide here how much she knew about this species of vine. It looks to be a hybrid, wouldn't you say?"

"That would be a question best asked of the technical staff ma'am," came the slightly perturbed tone of the Captain. "I would be happy to escort you to speak with those currently on shift if you would walk this way."

"Remind me to get a sample of the moss next to this flower before I leave dear," Victoria smiled widely as she finally turned to the Captain and unsurprisingly no one else. "Oh, a pity. I thought miss Dorcey was still there."

Regina Vergus was a woman in her late thirties or early forties. Physically fit, she wore a spaceliner officer's uniform of the same green coloration as miss Dorcey but with a "Chlotic Systems" emblem on her lapel. Her brown hair was pulled up into a sensible bun and only starting to show signs of dampness around the edges. "I took the liberty of excusing her for a break. Now if you'll come with me please ma'am, I would be happy to show you to one of our research labs to speak with our technicians."

"Of course Captain," Victoria said as she stepped back onto the path. A couple moments to stamp the brown substances from her boots and both women were walking towards the exit of the dome. While the jungle vegetation was lush and thick, the clearing for the walkway did offer the occasional glimpse of the glass and metal honeycomb of the dome overhead and the stars outside it. Victoria took the opportunity to stop at the last large primate enclosure because "Everyone likes seeing the monkeys talking at each other."

Minutes later, both of them were out of the dome. The door they used to exit was marked 'Staff Only' leading down a set of metal stairs and through an airlock door to the ship's main service tunnel. Too wide and tall to be considered a corridor, the tunnel stretched off quite a distance to the right and left. Painted lines on the floor designated two vehicle lanes and walkways to the sides of the wide passage. She could even see a forklift some ways off moving a cage with a wolf towards a bay door retracting into the ceiling.

"A highway in space," remarked Victoria to the woman walking at her side. "Seems everything about this ship was done on a grand scale."

"The diameter of one of our mega-domes is nearly the length of a typical biological cruiser," the Captain commented proudly. "We have four, two lined up end-to-end on both the dorsal and ventral sides. A passageway of this size is needed to move animals and equipment into and out of those domes. That's not counting maintaining the fourteen smaller bio-domes along the port and starboard sides. The airlocks at both ends of this passage even allow resupply shuttles to land and take off through this area. While not originally intended as a landing deck, that secondary use has proven quite beneficial in our wildlife conservation efforts."

Victoria barely noticed a small electric pickup truck passing the two women. She more smelled than saw the load of food for the animals portioned out in plastic containers. The odor of cut up fruit caused her stomach to protest not having been fed in quite some time.

"Tell me about those conservation efforts Captain," Victoria prodded. "Chlotic Systems is first and foremost a bio-forming and biology research company. How does the Vivarial fit into that mission?"

Captain Vergus stopped to regard Victoria briefly before opening a nearby airlock door and motioning her through. A short gunmetal gray hallway lead to another airlock door. "Perhaps this will answer your question ma'am," was the Captain's response while she opened the door. On the other side was a large laboratory with a few white robed scientists and technical staff members working on various projects. Several long counters with thick black tops stretched nearly the length of the room, broken only in the middle and ends for walkways. The near wall was lined with cages of savannah fauna and small animals typically found in such an environment. The far wall was mostly heavy spaceglass windows looking out into a standard size bio-dome of savannah land. Blinds could be seen at the tops of the windows but all appeared to be pulled up. A matching airlock door stood on the far wall from where the two women stood, a technician about to open it carrying a small covered animal cage under one arm.

"Bio-forming is a well established science," Regina began while both women walked towards the large glass windows. "You yourself are an expert in the field, Doctor Holden. The Vivarial allows Chlotic the opportunity to expand into full ecology management. From small insects to apex predators, we can move from colony to colony assisting with maintaining the proper balance of organisms to their environment."

As she continued, a single brown and black spotted horse began lazily approaching the windows. About the size of an average pony, its tail flicked back and forth behind it to keep the flies away as best it could. "While bio-forming will always be in demand to help maintain the Colonies, the additional ecology management opportunities this ship offers are already providing a sizable revenue stream for the company. The primary and secondary school tours are only increasing that stream. There is also discussion of partnering with one or more research universities for on-board classes in a revenue-sharing arrangement."

"I have seen the numbers, Captain Vergus," said Victoria, turning her head to observe both the horse and the Captain at the same time. "While revenues are exceeding costs by a substantial margin, it may be decades before this vessel turns a profit. What would you say to our long term shareholders that.." She paused as the horse on the other side of the glass raised it's tail and took the opportunity to answer the call of nature. "...Would consider your vessel little more than a flying manure factory?"

Much to Regina's credit she managed to maintain her composure, pausing only to take a single deep breath. "I would remind them that sanitation is a large business itself among the Colonies. Even recycling waste can be profitable when done competently. Then I would ask if they know anyone that would enjoy a complimentary tour of the large cat exhibit."

Victoria seemed to regard Regina's answer at length before turning back to the airlock door leading to the causeway. "You show promise dear. For your sake I hope this endeavor begins producing more exciting results soon or it may have to be discussed with the Board again. For now, I understand your desert biome research staff has been working on a new breed of cactus. Perhaps you could call for miss Dorcey to escort me there since her break should be just about over?"

Before Captain Vergus could say a word, Doctor Holden was cycling the inner airlock on the door and showing herself out of the lab to the ship's interior.

Shaking her head, the Captain moved towards one of the room's phones to call the tour station. Perhaps she should request one of the junior guides still prone to getting lost. That would at least be amusing to watch on the monitors from the bridge during the ship's ongoing tyllium refueling.


	5. Chapter 5 - Down to Business

_Episode 1 Part 5 - Down to Business_

Kevin Burrus found himself pondering how a company could handle its business so poorly and still be so profitable.

Kevin was a young man in his early twenties. His inky black hair had been cut shorter than he was used to causing it to naturally ruffle. Except for a thin goatee he was otherwise clean shaven. His clothing had changed noticeably throughout the day after his arrival on the Bastion, a massive heavy-cruiser sized freighter. The dirt, humidity, and greasy equipment had resulted in first his black suit jacket, then patterned tie, and finally polished shoes ending up in an open locker in the worker's break room. He had picked up a spare pair of leather work boots some time ago and the sleeves of his gray silk dress shirt were rolled up past the elbows in an effort to save it from the grime.

"These new detectors are working great sir," came the voice of Mitch, a big burly clean shaven worker dressed in a radiation suit with the helmet off so he could talk. "Better than the old TU-72s we've been using."

"Glad to hear," was the young man's reply, looking at the tissue box sized red device Mitch was holding by a metal handle. Three thick black discs were attached to it, one on the front and two on the sides. The top had several analog displays and a single digital one towards the bottom. "And please, call me Kevin."

"Are you sure sir?" came the somewhat sheepish reply from the man Kevin was sure could break him in half without a second thought. "Doesn't seem right calling my boss's boss's boss by his first name. Never had a Vice President of the company down here." Mitch's voice trailed off while he motioned with his free gloved hand to their surroundings.

Both men were standing in one of the Bastion's massive cargo-holds, the ventral port aft hold known as V-P-A. Gigantic space lane shipping containers were stacked two tall and two wide in long rows broken rarely by gaps for people to move through. The floor was coated in a layer of dust occasionally turned to mud when mixed with water or an oily slurry in other places indicating the equipment was occasionally leaking. Overhead a latticework held up flood lights and provided the support mechanism for cranes to drop down wires to offload the containers. Various colored lines painted on the floor indicated where people should walk, motorized equipment should move, standard cargo be stacked, containers of radioactives be stored, and volatiles be segregated away from everything else.

Kevin half chuckled while observing the massive hold before looking back to Mitch. "The lack of visitors from Deep Space Mining's main office might be part of the issue. Things tend to work better when observed. If it makes you feel better, Mr. Burrus would suffice."

Mitch grunted an acknowledgment more than spoke. His attention was partly distracted by stripping off the top half of the radiation suit, the empty arms hanging down by his legs. The lower gravity environment of the hold was slowing down the worker's actions. A careless movement could have him moving in a direction he did not want to do. The detector was sitting on the seat of a nearby forklift not in presently in use. "Mr. Burrus it is then."

"Since we cannot go into V-P-F due to the contamination," Kevin began, walking from where they had been standing towards the area designated for holding containers of volatiles. "Please walk me through what you found there in there. I understand, with only a few minor layout differences, the holds should be the same."

"That they are Mr. Burrus," was Mitch's reply, taking a couple steps past Kevin to lead the way. The red detector once again in his hand was beeping infrequently as they walked along.

Both men walked to a rough center point of the massive hold, containers towering around them. Mitch motioned in the direction of the wall for the outer hull which was only visible above some containers down the broken irregular rows. "The problem isn't the layout of the containers like we first thought. Loads of radioactives are kept along the outer hull and hot containers are never stacked. The distance and stacked containers in the middle of the hold are good enough to shield the crew. The cranes above have extra plating."

The large worker turned towards the opposite wall and nodded his head in its direction. "The inner walls of the hold are lined with anything that needs to be kept away from the hot containers like Tyllium ore being shipped for refinement. Random sweeps of the holds with the old detectors made sure the overall radiation levels never got too high. What they weren't showing us is where the radiation was coming from. Most of the time the guys just walked down the middle of the hold with basic protective gear to get an emissions reading."

Mitch took the opportunity to bend down, holding the red detector to the floor. After making sure the detector did not react, he picked up a handful of the dusty copperish dirt from the floor. "Turns out some loaders of the hot containers were not very careful decontaminating the outsides. The dirt has some radioactive ore dust in it. That stuff started blowing around the hold or was tracked around on our boots and equipment."

Dropping the dirt from his hand, the large worker stood back to his full height. Kevin took the opportunity to get back into a conversation. "The radioactive dirt near the Tyllium ore containers is where our spoilage is coming from then. While the overall levels are low, the hot dust near the inner walls is not being shielded by the containers in the middle."

"Would seem that way Mr. Burrus," Mitch replied while brushing the dust from his hands. "Going to need to talk to Mr. Rollins about sweeping the other holds too. If the dust was getting tracked around in V-P-F, it might be in other storage areas."

Kevin paused as he looked around the hold one more time. His eyes narrowed slightly as the full implications of Mitch's statement started to sink in. Even he could hear the stern and concerned tone seeping into his voice. "On my authority, put together a detail equipped with the new detectors. I want the galley, crew quarters, and medical swept in that order. You are to sweep the galley personally. Once those are done, coordinate with Captain Rollins directly on sweeping the remainder of the ship."

A quick glance from Kevin to Mitch showed the large man paling. Whether it was the order given or the instruction to sweep the galley first was a good question. "Any areas found to be contaminated will need put through decontamination procedures. If the galley is found to be contaminated, you instruct the medical facilities to inoculate everyone aboard with anti-radiation medication on my authority and then come find me. I do not care if I am on a call with the President of the Colonies, find me. Is all of that clear?"

Despite his easy going demeanor, Mitch came up to his full height in something approaching attention. "Yes sir Mr. Burrus."

"I am going to speak with the Captain about the state of my ship," was Kevin's comment over his should as he turned toward the inner wall to leave. "I expect a copy of your findings when you're done, Mitch." Turning back for just a moment, Kevin smiled and bowed his head to the burly worker. "And Mitch, good work. Keep it up."

Turning back towards the wall, Kevin made sure to put some distance between himself and Mitch before allowing his inner thoughts to slip out. "First Freighter 17 gets so damaged from chemical leakage that it had to be scrapped, and now this? Mitch just might find himself with Rollins job in the next few weeks if that galley is hot."

Kevin's steps echoed dully down the corridor as he left the cargohold, thoughts of the friendly meal he ate with the crew in the morning coming back now with far darker character.


	6. Chapter 6 - The Boneyard

_Episode 1 Part 6 - The Boneyard_

"Ship in our kill slot!" barked a deep voice from behind Erinn Sharp.

"Need a firing line!" she responded tersely without turning. The gloves of her flight suit creaked audibly from the pressure of her grip on the stick controls in her hands.

"Hold tight," came the deep voice from behind her just before everything spun around her.

Gritting her teeth and constricting her muscles as hard as she could kept her from passing out, the ship around her flipped end over end while rolling a half circle in under a second. Her attention stayed glued to the three monitors in front of her showing dradis contacts around them. Before the ship was finished flipping she had the controls moving, two forward facing turrets tracking the movements of her hands independently. Her right turret tracked into a firing solution first, the firing line lit up in a series of red circles on the monitor. Dull thuds from the right turret firing echoed into the cockpit while her left hand guided the left turret into a firing solution. It did not take long before both turrets sweeping towards each other made contact with the target, her displays lighting up with the results.

"Another one down," Erinn breathed into her helmet's microphone. The contact on her monitor had switched from showing a live target to a chunk of dead debris moving away from their position.

Her words were followed almost immediately by the same deep voice behind her stating, "That should be enough." The words trailed off towards the end while the ship began to bank.

"Scorpions, this is Slingshot," crackled the same deep voice out over a wireless channel and back into her helmet. "Commence bombing run."

Erinn's thumbs moved down to click the yellow buttons on the sides of the joysticks. In addition to the red concentric circles showing the direction of her turret, a new set of straight dull yellow lines terminating in a yellow crosshair appeared.

The ship around Erinn banked hard to port, her monitors showing several green contacts moving towards a much bigger red contact some distance away. One of the green contacts had moved into close enough formation for her to see its rough shape on the monitors and through the band of glass constituting the cockpit window. Despite herself she could feel her breath catch in her throat at the sight of an old Cylon War era raider flying formation with her. It was easy to forget she was in a similar "flying wing" in the middle of a fight but seeing a friendly in what should be an enemy ship still gave her pause.

A wireless transmission of, "Scorpion Five has a clear line. Pressing the target," quickly brought Erinn back to the fight before her. Of the dozen or so green contacts on her screens, one was now breaking hard for a Colonial cruiser floating out in space. The raider had managed to get around the flak screen zone after most of the defending Vipers had been eliminated.

"Scorpions One and Two moving in," rumbled the deep voice of Slingshot over the wireless. Erinn felt her body being pressed hard into the seat behind her when Slingshot kicked their ship into full throttle in a nearly straight trajectory towards the cruiser.

Between the raider's course lining the cruiser up through the cockpit window and her displays, Erinn had quite the view of Scorpion Five's bombing run. Five was approaching the cruiser from the aft. The first of four missiles detached as the raider broke towards the underside of the vessel, the first missile heading directly for the four sub-light engines at the rear of the cruiser. The other three missiles detached as the raider rolled away from the ship, trails of exhaust leading towards the single hangar bay attached under the cruiser.

All four missiles impacted at approximately the same time. Erinn's monitors showed a particularly impressive group of low-yield nuclear explosions rush outwards from the cruiser, a couple of the remaining Scorpions including Five getting caught in the blast. The view from the cockpit window however was rather different. No flashes of light, fireballs, or destroyed ships appeared. In fact the cruiser remained perfectly intact with the missiles that should have destroyed it now drifting harmlessly nearby.

"All fighters, this is Charger," came the voice of an older gentleman over the wireless. "Charger is Status Black. Repeat, Charger has been destroyed."

A series of cheers and groans erupted over the wireless frequencies. Erinn could make out one particularly loud male voice saying, "Some days it pays to be the bad guys."

"Charger, this is Slingshot," came the voice of Erinn's pilot going out over the wireless. "Copy Status Black. All ships, drill is complete. Stand down from Condition One and land all drill birds."

Several ships acknowledged the stand down order while Erinn took the opportunity to put the mock weapons on safe. All of the vessels previously listed as killed flashed back to active status on her monitors and all of the contacts flashed over to friendly status. Erinn could not help wanting to stretch out against her seat and the restraints keeping her attached to it. Releasing the tension from her cramped muscles elicited a couple loud pops from her shoulders and elbows. "That was quite the experience Commodore," she said to the man sitting behind her. "Thank you for letting me join you in the drill."

"You are quite welcome Erinn," Slingshot's replied. "Commanding this base does have its perks. One of them being choosing my gunner for simulated attack drills."

"Flying in a raider is a welcome break from salvage paperwork," Erinn said over the background wireless transmissions of other ships requesting landing clearance.

Slingshot paused briefly before responding to Erinn's statement. "If a longer break would interest you, I'm confident the Fleet or Reserves would be interested in having you back, Captain. An experienced Viper pilot that can manage an entire base of scrappers would be a strong candidate for advancement."

Before Erinn could say another word, her pilot's voice went out over the wireless again. "Kronos Control, this is Scorpion One. Requesting landing clearance. Over."

A scratchy male voice replied over the wireless a moment later, "Scorpion One, Kronos Control. You are cleared for approach on Runway Three. Speed eighty, hands-on approach, checkers green, call the ball."

Their raider turned into a long bank, adjusting its trajectory towards their destination on the nearby moon Kronos. The attack drill against the Charger had occurred in orbit over the moon, the dusty red surface pot-marked by impact craters occasionally coming into view during the exercise. Also occasionally coming into view was the massive gas giant Hestia Kronos orbited. Currently the moon's surface was dominating the lower half of Erinn's monitors and the cockpit window before her. The lower the raider came in over the surface the more the rocky and hilly terrain began to stand out. The low gravity of the moon and lack of an atmosphere made the approach both silent and turbulence free.

"Kronos, Scorprion One," Slingshot signaled out over the wireless, "I have the ball." Erinn could feel, more than hear, a slight vibration through her seat of the landing skids descending from the raider's undercarriage.

Their destination on the surface was finally in view; the Jointly Operated Kronos Ship Breaking and Repair Yard. The outer edges of the facility were a dusty flat expanse of old vessels. Every imaginable ship, from civilian passenger liners to the hulks of massive Colonial fleet ships, were laid out in geometric patterns before them. Descending lower, the ribbing of a destroyed Jupiter-classed Battlestar, the Archeron, came level with and then loomed over their raider. Despite having made this approach before, the seconds it took to pass that particular ship's skeleton were more time than she would like to take reflecting on its demise. While many of her USRC subordinates nicknamed the facility 'The Boneyard,' those that had never served in the Fleet would sometimes forget the bloody legacy that created much of the fields around them. Being a facility jointly operated between Colonial Fleet Reserve and the USRC had many benefits for both sides, barring the occasional insensitive comment causing a scuffle.

Approaching the runway, the larger vessels gave way to row after row after row of every model and variant of Viper. Many were partly disassembled, either missing pieces of their wings, engines, or cockpit canopies. In some cases the pieces were laying in the dust beneath those ships waiting for a pick-up that might never happen. The lit runway they were approaching was surrounded on both sides by large hangars. Most of the hangars were open to space though a few had smaller buildings on their fronts which were large air locks. Runway Three ended in a large circular paved area at which three other runways also terminated. Each runway was a quarter circle away from the next making a cross pattern on the surface. The three other runways were similarly surrounded by hangars. The non-hangar buildings necessary for running the facility including Control, barracks, mess halls, and others were out of view, either built underground or buried under artificial hills. Being underground offered extra protection against micro meteorites or stray radiation.

The raider came in straight and low on the runway's final approach. The nose tipped up slightly for landing on the runway, accompanied by deceleration that was pulling Erinn down lightly into her seat. The rear skids made contact with the runway first at a relatively low speed, jostling both pilot and gunner slightly. The vibrations from touchdown of the front skids were barely noticeable, other than the view out the cockpit window coming level with the surface.

"Welcome back, Commodore," came the voice of Kronos Control before switching to a Viper requesting clearance.

A small amount of thrust from the engines and the maneuvering thrusters had the raider moving off the runway onto a taxiway. A group of three knuckle draggers in zero-atmosphere suits with a tracked towing vehicle met them on the paved area between the taxiway and hangars. With tow chains attached and moving the ship, the raiders engines powered down with a noticeable final shudder.

Slingshot chuckled over the ship's internal comms at something Erinn must have missed before saying, "You should have a memo on your desk when you're back to your office this afternoon, Director Sharp. The Battlestar Aegis will be coming in early tomorrow, instead of the day after for its rotation of Reservist enlisted. Adjustments to the landing schedule and joint operations will be needed."

Erinn thought for a moment, the raider being pulled into a hangar's large airlock as she replied, "Shouldn't be an issue Commodore. The D.S.M. freighter coming in for breaking can be parked in orbit temporarily. Will notify the courtesy liner taking them home of the change."

"Very Good," was the Commodore's response.

Both of their breaks from paperwork ended to the sound of atmosphere hissing against the hull in a now sealed airlock.


	7. Chapter 7 - The Other Condition One

_Episode 1 Part 7 – The Other Condition One_

Commander Marina Riston could not help a small smile at the sound of time ticking away on the hands of a nearby wall clock. The deep blue of her Colonial Officer's duty uniform shifted around a thin frame as she adjusted her posture in a high backed metal chair. Subtle creases in the uniform mirrored more than a couple creases at the corners of her mouth and eyes. The slightly wavy mass of her graying blonde hair was pulled back into a short ponytail behind her. While others might be concerned that she was looking old before her time, she had hardly given it a second thought since her fortieth birthday a few years prior.

The office around her, while normal sized for a commanding officer aboard a Mars-class Battlestar, felt smaller than it should. The simple and sturdy metal desk she was sitting at was at the back of the room, with cabinets and filing drawers around it. Additional cabinets and metal countertops lined the perimeter of the room containing paperwork, charts, reference materials, and other items the Commander might find herself needing. Computer monitors stood on some of the counters and mounted to some of the walls. One at the corner of her desk showed ship readings, duty logs, communications from other vessels, and other information she might need at a moments notice. A large metal conference table bolted to the floor dominated much of the office away from her desk, low backed metal chairs around it. In the places where the bulkheads were not covered with monitors, framed copies of antique star charts, paintings of gas giants, or pictures of airless moons covered much of the wall space. At both her desk, and on the other side of the room, pairs of wired phones were mounted to the walls beside twin speakers. One of each pair of phones was of the original design installed decades ago, while the other was much newer, with an accompanying digital display.

With a final look to the analog clock on the wall, the Commander set aside the last of her now finished paperwork. A quick stretch of her legs worked out a knot in her left calf.

As she stood up, the sound of an alert siren suddenly blared through her ship. The voice of a young woman came onto the ships speakers declaring, "Action Stations, Action Stations! Set Condition One throughout the ship. This is a drill. Repeat, Action Stations, Action Stations! Set Condition One throughout the ship. This is a drill."

The Commander's smile broadened considerably at her favorite phrase reverberating through her ship. Despite the bulkheads surrounding the room, she could hear her crew moving quickly and efficiently in the hall.

The monitors around her began shifting to a myriad of different readings. A couple strides had her standing before a cluster of three screens above one much bigger screen. One of the small screens showed the active dradis readouts with her Battlestar Aegis floating in space. Simulated raiders were appearing on the readout, heading for the ship. Another small monitor showed the status of the Alert Vipers preparing to launch. The third small monitor scrolled transcripts of any communications traffic coming in. The large monitor showed a 3D image of her ship shaded green, all areas showing full operational status. Small green circles over the various flak and main-gun turrets began appearing showing ammo status. The flak turrets were already starting simulated fire causing the green circles to slowly bleed red.

"Integrated networks do have their usefulness," Marina said to herself, complete control of her ship at her fingertips.

The dradis monitor showed a cluster of new simulated contacts breaking away from the raiders and inbound to the Aegis. The flak screen turrets winnowed down the phantom incoming objects, now identified as missiles. While the number of incoming missiles was going down, it was _not_ going down fast enough.

"All hands, brace for impact!" echoed the voice of the same young female officer over the internal speakers. The Commander did just that, grabbing onto the large metal conference desk. She watched as two simulated missile tracks impacted her ship's icon. While there was no physical impact, parts of the 3D ship's image on the large monitor flashed green, yellow and then red. Both missiles had low yield nuclear warheads, dramatically increasing the simulated damage to the ship. One had hit aft near the sub-light engines knocking the two dorsal engines offline if not completely destroying them. The other missile had hit amidships, atmospheric pressure warnings appearing in crimson triangles around the impact site.

Warning tones sounded in damaged areas of the ship alerting the crew to danger zones. Radiation contamination symbols started showing in the engineering section closest to the rear missile damage zone. A few seconds later the readouts on the monitors began to freeze and flicker, status updates cutting out from parts of the ship entirely.

"Unless you lose the network," the Commander chuckled to herself. That particular malfunction was her cue. A couple strides through her office had her spinning the handle on the door and pushing out into the hallway beyond.

The hallways leading out from her office towards the CIC were the same as on many Battlestars of the Aegis's era. Having walls that sloped outwards as they approached the floor allowed several people to walk side-by-side with little difficulty. However, much of the added space the sloped walls offered near the bottom was stuffed with containers of supplies on both sides of the hallways. In some places the containers and crates were stacked to shoulder height or equally deep.

The extra materials in the hallways somewhat restricted the movement of the crew rushing from one location to another. Knuckledraggers in emergency zero-atmosphere gear with cutting torches were heading to the damaged sections on the decks above her. Medics were either providing first aid to crew with simulated injuries in the halls or getting them on stretchers to be taken to sickbay. Splints for simulated broken arms and legs were common, as well as wrappings for bleeding from the head or hands. Despite the activity and narrowed passages, the crew was not tripping over each other. At worst some had to slow down to keep from running into each other.

The Commander paused for a moment to examine a couple flickering monitors with attached keyboard at a junction. One showed substantial bandwidth degradation in the networked computer systems. Some of the computers had been knocked out in the simulated nuclear explosions while others were having issues communicating on damaged network lines. Too few computers were still fully functional and communicating correctly to handle the entire processing load. The support staff was attempting to stabilize the network but did not seem to be having much success. The other monitor displayed the message "ERROR: Due to a Network Outage, Damage Control Logs are unavailable at this time. Please contact the ship's Network Systems Administrators for assistance." At that, Marina snickered softly to herself.

Her path to the CIC took the Commander near the mid-ship damage control station. With the network being unreliable, one of the more senior damage control crew members was on a corded phone relaying orders. A large panel with a diagram of the ship with various colored LEDs was mounted to the wall in front of him indicating status and location of damage. His leg had a makeshift split on it and another crew member was helping him stand but he continued relaying information. He only stopped to acknowledge the Commander and switch lines to inform the CIC of her location.

A couple passageways later, Commander Marina Riston was on the threshold of her CIC. The room was roughly octagonal, wide, and two decks tall in the middle. Long counters were set up gallery style in the room, manned by crew at workstations with rounded monochrome monitors mounted in the counters. Each row was high enough above the next for seated crew to see down to the center of the room. Sets of steps cut down from the upper airlock doors to the main floor below. A cluster of monitors hung from the center of the ceiling coming to just above head-height. Directly below was an octagonal navigational table, the translucent grid-lined surface lit from below. Two slices of the octagonal room were free of gallery stations. One slice was replaced by an upright piece of glass with concentric circles and a grid painted on. Behind it was an airlock door to the deck below. The other octagon slice had two standing workstations with newer flat monitors flickering and flashing network error messages.

"Commander on deck!" one of the crewmen announced loudly from just below her. Under normal circumstances that would have elicited more of a response from the CIC staff. With the current drill, she walked down to the main floor with barely a pair of eyes on her.

At the main table was Major Miles Preston, one of her middle-level officers. Preston was in his mid-thirties, dark skinned, clean shaven, and had short curly black hair on his head. He was slightly taller than the crewman standing next to him relaying damage information through one of the corded phones built into the side of the central table.

"Major, sit-rep," said Commander Riston as her boots hit the deck plating.

"A squadron of Cylon raiders launched nukes in the opening salvo," Major Preston responded. "Two hit top-side, one near the sub-lights the other mid-ship. Repair crews are working on damaged sections. Alert Vipers have been launched but three more squadrons of raiders are coming in. Colonel Evans is in sickbay after being knocked out in the initial attack."

"And our systems?" Riston inquired, her head nodding upwards towards some of the monitors flickering above them.

"We have a Level Two degradation of the network," Major Preston replied, also looking up to the monitors. "Primary Fire Control and Navigation are holding. Damage Control is being coordinated through secondary comms."

A brief pause and a look over his shoulder to three crew members huddled around an older workstation had Preston grimacing slightly. "Primary and secondary jump computers are unresponsive. Emergency backups are experiencing... legitimate technical issues."

Commander Riston prized herself on maintaining control in front of her crew. She was their commander after all. That is why her eyes narrowing at Preston had him somewhat concerned. "Which means we cannot retreat."

"No Commander," Preston replied, his gaze going back up to one of the monitors showing dradis contacts.

"Well Major," Riston began, her voice remaining level and almost conversational, "since an emergency jump computer malfunction was not part of the original drill plan, what would you do now if I wasn't here?"

The Major looked back down from the array of monitors to his commanding officer. While much of this drill had been to see how the ship would respond without its primary systems or command staff, this was effectively a snap-test of his personal command skills. "I would launch all remaining Vipers, send a sit-rep to Fleet Command, and light a fire under Tech-Sup for those jump computers Commander."

The Commander considered his plan for a moment before nodding almost imperceptibly. "A fair plan Major. Since it is yours, give the orders."

Turning to one of the communications officers, the Major began issuing orders to be relayed throughout the ship. Commander Riston took the opportunity to step back from the main desk and observe one of the still functional status report monitors. Part of her wanted to listen to Major Preston and the rest of her crew deal with an unexpected twist in the drill. Having Preston perform under a bit of added pressure would be useful in his next review. Another part of her was unsettled at the unexpected malfunction of the backup jump computers and she wanted to investigate. Drills were meant to uncover issues but the backup systems were her pet project. She had insisted the original non-networked Cylon-war era computers remain during the Aegis's retrofit a couple years prior. She designated them as tertiary emergency backups since they never seemed to break. Colonial Fleet agreed to "evaluate" their continued effectiveness after extensive discussions with her and a couple called in favors. Depending on what caused the failure, this might be an issue for that evaluation.

"Commander," came Major Preston's voice from behind her. She turned away from the monitor and was surprised to see the Major with an obviously scared expression holding a piece of paper in his hands. The thought of, 'If this is how he reacts to extra pressure...' was cut off in her mind when he continued.

"We just received a transmission from Fleet Command," he said in a voice that wavered ever so slightly. "Sir, it was transmitted in the clear on Priority One channel."

Before Preston could read it, the Commander had taken the slip of paper out of his hands. She read it once and then in a rare exception for her read the same words twice.

"_Action Stations!_" she bellowed at the command staff, all activity coming to a halt in the CIC for a split second. The Major, the junior officers, and the command staff looked at their Commander for only an instant before erupting in a flurry of activity.

As would be expected with such an order, a number of things started happening all at once. The simulated damage readouts of ship malfunctions were rapidly switching back over to live active readouts. Staff that had shifted around for the drill rushed back towards their primary stations. The sirens and warning tones around the ship cut out to a new order blaring through the loudspeakers of "Action Stations! Action Stations! Set Condition One throughout the ship. This is _not_ a drill. Repeat, Action Stations! Action Stations! Set Condition One throughout the ship. This is _not_ a drill."

The Commander stepped back up to her command desk, ordering half of their Vipers be recalled and the other half deployed in a defensive position. "Have sickbay get the Colonel back to the CIC and report to your post," she instructed Major Preston. She was so focused on the orders she was giving she did not notice herself setting the slip of paper she had been holding down onto the up-lit table. The diffused white light shone up through the short strip of paper highlighting three simple sentences; _"Attention all Colonial units. Cylon attack underway. This is no drill."_


	8. Chapter 8 - Consequences

_Episode 2 - Shock and Scurry_

_Part 1 - Consequences_

Sylvia Percy found herself facing an emotion she had prayed she would never come to know.

"By the Lords. Caprica City has been _nuked_..." came a male voice from somewhere to her right.

Throughout her life she had known fear. Fear was a natural emotion for everyone to experience.

"Tauron Civil Defense is reporting multiple explosions as well... and we just lost their channel," said the same voice.

For the first time in her life, the middle aged woman had come to know horror. Part of her mind wondered if this is what it would feel like to have every other emotion scooped out of her soul and be replaced by the most awful hollow sinking desperation imaginable.

"Trying the military channels. Civilian channels are cutting out."

Her friends. So many had careers in the major cities. They would be lucky to be anything other than a cloud of ash or a black mark on a wall right now.

"Madam Secretary?"

Maybe her house was still there. It was far enough out in the countryside that it might not have been destroyed by the heat and the fire. When was the last time she had even been there?

"Miss Percy...?"

That sounded like Quinn. Was that a hand on her shoulder?

"Sylvia, can you hear me?" That was Quinn. That was her Deputy, the person helping her for months. Did he need her?

"Q...Quinn?" she finally managed to choke out. Her throat felt tight and her hands were shaking.

With the help of Quinn's hand on her shoulder, Sylvia slowly turned away from the small window looking out into the blackness of space. The sounds of the conference room she had been in just hours prior were seeping into her awareness now. Martin was on a corded phone near the door demanding a wireless channel to speak with someone. One of her staff was slumped down in a chair at the conference desk sobbing uncontrollably. The rest of the room's occupants were surrounding a flat black metal box on top of the conference table. It was about the size of a tool box with various knobs, gauges, speakers, antenna, and even a small printer slot attached to it.

"Audio channels have too much chatter to understand," said the man manipulating the controls. He was dressed in an all black suit with a pair of sunglasses now resting on top of his buzzed cut hair. His right ear was encircled by a headphone with short microphone sticking forward. Sylvia was fairly sure that he was the head of her security detail. "Switching to digital traffic."

"Madam Secretary, are you with us?" Quinn asked in a concerned voice beside her. His hand was still resting on her shoulder. She reached up with an only slightly shaky hand to squeeze his before removing it from her shoulder. Her hand fell to the back of an empty office chair, using the chair to steady herself.

"I think so," she managed to say with a more normal tone. While far from gone, the hollow sinking feeling no longer felt like it was consuming her completely. She needed to focus herself. When all else failed her in a crisis, she could could fallback onto years of business training. That she knew. That she could work with and through. "What is the status of the Lanes?"

"As soon as the first nukes detonated, the automated Emergency Hold-in-Place orders went out," said Quinn from next to her, reaching a hand down to pick up a slip of printed paper. "Relay Vessels have been jumping to their transmission points throughout the Colonies. We should start getting reports back on what they are finding out there momentarily."

"I didn't ask for excuses!" came the raised voice of Martin into the corded phone attached to the wall. "If you cannot contact the Director, get one of the Deputy Directors on the line now!"

"Fleet is reporting massive contact with a Cylon attack force," the suited man at the communications box stated to anyone that was listening. The black box was printing out slip after slip of paper which he was quickly reading. "As well as major causalities. They think Picon Fleet Headquarters was overwhelmed and destroyed in the open minutes of the attacks. They still don't know how many ships and people they have lost."

"Cylons..." Sylvia breathed. The sinking feeling threatened to start growing once again. This time however it crashed against years of crisis management training she was starting to draw from. No matter how out of control things might be, she knew what she needed to do. That she could be in control of. "Then this is really it," she said more to herself than anyone else.

Sylvia felt herself straighten up fully, hands brushing her hair back behind her ears. "Switch to monitoring audio from the Relay Vessel and digital traffic from Civil Defense," she said to her chief of security. "We need to know how many Cylons are on the Lanes and attacking civilian ships."

"Quinn," she intoned as she turned to her Deputy "Get the Red Book. The ships out there will need additional instructions soon."

"Yes Madam Secretary," responded the middle-aged gentleman. He was already moving towards three large metal briefcases that were open at the end of the conference desk.

"About time!" Martin exclaimed into the phone he was gripping tightly. "This is Undersecretary Baus. Can you hear me?"

"This is RS-27B reporting from Liberon," cut in a scratchy male voice from one of the communication's boxes speakers. "Hold orders successfully relayed to Lanes 16B, 16C, and 17A. Received some krypters by ships reporting hostile contacts. Sounded like some new kind of raiders. None of the distress calls lasted very long."

"We have unconfirmed reports of attacks on civilian locations and military facilities," Martin said in a slightly more subdued tone. "What is happening at the spaceports and our docks?"

Quinn returned to where Sylvia was standing with a thin red binder in his hands. Opening it revealed about twenty plastic sleeves each with a single thick sheet of paper inside.

"RS-02A reporting in," came a female voice at barely a whisper over the boxes speakers. "Lanes 1H and 2A notified." There was a choking, sobbing sound over the wireless before it continued. "There was a large transport at the 2A relay point until … until two small ships I have never seen before jumped in and blew it up. We heard them begging for help until the end..."

Between the book now open on the conference table and the last transmission, the room had gone quiet. The occupants were either looking to Sylvia or staring at nothing. Eyes followed Sylvia as she flipped several plastic covered pages in the binder. Each had a single large set of letters at the top, a small block of codes in the middle, and a paragraph or two of text at the bottom. "Martin," Sylvia said as she looked to the man still holding the corded phone to his ear. "What can you report?"

"We have lost contact with our main docks and several of the spaceports Madam Secretary," Martian responded grimly. "The inspectors and police on the Lanes are also reporting sporadic contacts with civilian ships under attack. A few police ships have encountered small groups of what were probably Cylon raiders. Those that could jumped away before the raiders got too close."

Sylvia paused for a moment, flipped one more page in the binder, and then pulled a single thick sheet of paper from the sleeve. She also pulled a small slip of paper from her pocket before handing both to her head of security. "Send the code on this slip of paper on Maintenance Channel Three. Then send the codes to activate Lanes Plan HiP2-D on the Emergency Channel. Make sure all Relay Ships receive the new instructions for transmission."

"2D?!" Martin exclaimed in utter disbelief, the phone dropping from his hand as he rounded towards Sylvia with wide eyes. "Those are police units out there, not Battlestars!"

"The police cutters can intercept and pacify pirates," Sylvia responded tersely, her brow furrowing as she looked to the normally mousy man. "Even the inspection ships can hold off a couple fighters. Right now, most civilian ships are vulnerable to any attack. The Colonies are being nuked meaning their defenses are already overwhelmed. Every armed vessel needs to be on the Lanes protecting those ships. That is why option 'D' exists."

Martin stood there looking aghast while the security officer typed the codes on the keypad attached to the communications box. Several lights flickered on the box indicating the message had been sent. "Its done," the security officer intoned.

"Quinn, please come with me," Sylvia said, her thin frame in motion and heading toward the door. The older gentleman fell into step behind her quickly.

She spared a moment to place a hand on Martin's shoulder while Quinn cycled the door. "They are going to die out there, you realize that," the man said to her quietly before turning away from her. The person on the other end of the phone was now shouting loud enough that Sylvia could almost make out the words. "The police ships could never protect the civilians on their own."

Instead of responding to him, Sylvia pushed out into the passenger areas of the Gemenon Liner. Quinn followed closely behind after closing the door. The conference room opened into the executive class seating area. Overstuffed leather seats were separated by dividing walls into small groups of two facing each other. Long walkways ran the length of the seating area with occasional breaks in the walls allowing access to the other side of the seating area. Most of the seats appeared empty, the sounds of people talking loudly could be heard further back in the seating area.

"Madam Secretary, if I may?" Quinn inquired. He continued after she nodded, Sylvia walking briskly towards the front of the ship. "Martin is right. The police and inspection ships would be no match for military units beyond small patrols without Civil Defense support or Fleet coordination."

"They just have to buy the civilians some time," Sylvia said, passing into the forward passenger area. Here they passed a small group of people huddled around a portable wireless radio. "Time to find somewhere safe, somewhere protected. Somewhere the Cylons have not destroyed. The cost for that time will be high. The cost of waiting would be even higher."

The entrance to the cockpit was not much further forward. A young stewardess had the door open, leaning against one side with her hand covering her mouth. The pilot was sitting in the left hand seat, an aging man that had lost all but a little of the gray hair on his head. The copilot was a middle aged woman with short brown hair and glasses. Both the pilot and copilot were talking on single-ear headsets, likely other ships from their overlapping conversations.

Through the windows to port, both Quinn and Sylvia could see the flash of another ship jumping in nearby. "That was fast," Quinn commented curiously, stepping in front of two empty chairs to look out the windows. "It should have taken them longer." His words trailed off as his eyes narrowed. "That isn't a police cutter or inspection ship. It looks like an armored Defender, the kind private security firms or banks use for courier services."

The ship maneuvering in space for a course parallel to the liner looked like a large "Y" with the narrow end in front and the sub-light engines in the split rear. A single hangar deck was slung under the split rear section allowing quick access for shuttles. Even from some distance, Quinn could see numerous anti-fighter turrets on its armored hull. It was clearly equipped to keep any would-be pirates at bay until it could jump to safety.

"They were nearby then," Sylvia said as she pushed past the startled stewardess. "Captain, I am Sylvia Percy, Secretary of Transportation," she announced before anyone including the stewardess could protest her presence. "I need a secure channel to the ship that has jumped to us. It is a classified matter of Colonial Security. Your assistance is appreciated."

The pilot and copilot looked to each other briefly before the pilot reached for a console beside him. He picked up another wired half-headset and handed it to Sylvia, flicking several switches before hailing the other ship. Sylvia caught Martin looking at her while she was adjusting the headset. The expression on his face made it obvious he was looking an explanation. She returned his look with one that simply said 'be patient'.

"Verification code?" came the sound of a male voice over the headset.

"VIFK7412," replied Sylvia into the microphone before her.

"Identity confirmed," came back the same male voice. "We are currently at Status Two. Are you requesting an elevation?"

"Yes," Sylvia breathed, her gaze looking back to Quinn. "Elevation requested at twenty."

There was a brief pause before a small printer in the cockpit lurched to life, thin sheets of continuous feed paper with apparent gibberish printing out. "Elevation approved. Rendezvous will commence in five minutes."

Sylvia removed the headset, offering it back to the pilot. "A shuttle will dock from the courier vessel in five minutes," she said to him, continuing to talk before anyone could get a word in. "My staff and I will be transferring onto that vessel. To ensure your ship's safety and our shuttle's departure, the courier will transmit jump coordinates to a classified rendezvous once the shuttle has departed your liner. If the shuttle does not leave with me on board, the courier will jump away without transmitting the coordinates. Can I assume there will be no issues with our departure or keeping this matter confidential?"

The elderly captain tore the now printed sheets of paper off the printer. He looked at the pages for a moment and then handed them to her, his expression mad while his tone was completely calm. "You call that a choice?"

"Quinn, get the staff and take them below to the rear airlock," Sylvia said as she handed most of the pages to him. "Each is to have one of these and be carrying nothing else. I will get the others and meet you down there momentarily. Understood?"

He regarded her for a moment before taking the sheets. "Yes Madam Secretary," was all he said before turning back to the passenger area of the liner. With little time and several ways he could see this going wrong, the elder politician moved as quickly as he could without drawing unwanted attention towards the conference room.

* * *

Author's Note:

As several have noted, there was a considerable gap between the publishing of Episode 1 and the start of Episode 2. Unfortunately, meat-space has been hungry for my time. My goal is to publish at least one part/chapter per month for the next few months. Hopefully that goal is achievable.


	9. Chapter 9 - Ghosts in the Graveyard

_Episode 2 Part 2 - Ghosts in the Graveyard_

Colonial Fleet Commodore Thomas Deser was finding it impossible to do what he needed to do.

"Sir, no response from Canceron Orbital Command."

He had ordered his communication staff to contact Fleet bases in-system to coordinate fallback and rendezvous plans.

"No response from Aerilon's Reserve Depot either Commodore."

Much to his concern, there seemed no one left to take those wireless calls.

Thomas looked around the long room that passed for a Command Center at the Kronos Scrapyard. The room was divided into thirds by thick glass walls with doors in the middle for people to walk through. One end section of the room was dominated by ceiling to floor dradis readouts projected onto the three opaque walls. In the middle of the room stood four Landing Officers, each wearing headsets and watching the dradis readouts. Next to each Landing Officer was a desk with two enlisted personnel also wearing headsets. The other end section of the room had four large up-lit tables taking up much of the floor space. Gaps between the tables and along the walls allowed personnel to move around them. On each table where quadrant layouts of the surrounding base and ship scrap yards, some of the larger ships rating miniatures on the tables instead of two dimensional markers. The middle section of the room is where Thomas stood at present. About a dozen desks where arranged out in three rows of four, each desk having two workstations. Various enlisted personnel and officers were on headsets at the workstations, either talking to other parts of the facility or trying to find someone for Thomas to talk too.

Thomas was standing in the center of the room. Of average height and build, the first thing noticeable about him was his hair. Originally black and curly even when short, large portions were now gray or white. The same was true for his short mustache and goatee. He was wearing his typical blue duty uniform, various pins and patches attached to it showing his rank.

"Are we receiving signals from any of the emergency rendezvous locations?" Thomas rumbled at the petty officers and specialists nearest to him.

"Negative on all primaries sir," came the voice of a female petty officer from behind him.

"For secondaries, only Rally Point Buster is transmitting sir," announced the voice of a male specialist to his right. "Reporting two support vessels and a tanker on site."

"Commodore Deser!" came a female voice from a doorway along one of the room's long wall. A glance showed two people entering the room in USRC professional uniforms. One was a short woman in her late twenties with wavy red hair down past her ears and a sizable bust. The other was a man of average height with short tousled blonde hair, a three day stubble, and deep lines around his mouth as well as above his forehead.

"Not now Director Sharp," Thomas replied, turning away from the room's new occupants. He was walking around tables towards the male specialist that had announced contact with a rally point.

"Sir, I have an urgent ship status report for you," Erinn Sharp continued as she strode through the room in the Commodore's direction. Her pace was quick, the Commodore's dismissal showing no signs of slowing her down. Her male companion was keeping pace a stride or two behind her.

"I won't be repeating myself," Thomas said with a hint of annoyance in his voice, his head only turned slightly towards Erinn while leaning in towards the specialist in front of him. One of his hands had come to rest on the surface of the specialist's desk as he said, "Verify with the SO at Buster that the jump-in coordinates are clear. Then contact our transports for a launch status update."

"Commodore," Erinn intoned a bit louder, trying to get his full attention. She was standing within five feet of Thomas now, her arm extended towards him with a sheet of paper in her hand. The fact he was not turning towards her was not lost on her. "The Nova and Equinox are Status Blue and the Horizon is Status Yellow."

Thomas physically stopped moving for a moment. Even his breathing had paused. When we went to stand back up, his movements were stiff. Erinn found herself taking a half step back from the look on Thomas's face when he turned to look at her. The muscles around his jaw were hard, brows down and set in a straight line, eyes slightly narrowed and unblinking. Wordlessly he took two paces towards Erinn and yanked the page out of her hands, bringing it up to skim. His other arm was at his side, muscles clenched with his free hand formed into a loose fist.

He looked up from the page to Erinn for a half a second, seeming to look for any indication that what he was reading was anything but accurate. Seeing no reaction, he turned his head slightly and said out of the corner of his mouth, "Major Dalton, you have the room."

"Aye sir, I have the room!" came the response of a woman now standing from one of the stations.

"Director Sharp and Mister Orous, with me," Thomas ordered tersely, spinning and then stalking towards the door for the map room.

Broad, swift strides had him in the next room in seconds. Enlisted personnel, a Fleet Lieutenant, and USRC personnel looked up with surprise or confusion to see the Commodore storming into the room with the USRC Director and another professional following close behind.

"Give us the room and close the blinds," Thomas curtly said to everyone inside. A nod from Erinn to the USRC personnel had them following the Fleet members out the doors. One of them hit a couple buttons on their way out causing blinds to descend from the ceiling down to the floor covering the glass wall. A smaller set stopped just above the door while another covered the glass portion of the door.

Commodore Deser found himself standing where the aisles between the four up-list tables intersected. In a figurative sense he was standing in the middle of his base, each table laid out to show where every building, large ship, and fields of smaller ones resided. He looked towards the far wall, away from the door he had entered through, back turned to Erinn and Carmon. "Under any other circumstances, the people involved with this would be shot," Thomas said in an almost calm tone.

"Sir..." Erinn started hesitantly.

"_Don't!_" Thomas erupted in a full volume roar, the page crumpling loudly as his hand snapped into a fist around it. "Don't you _dare_ speak. You are a hair's breadth from being thrown into my brig and being left to rot as it is."

Silence permeated the room for several seconds. The only noticeable sound being the loud, deep breaths the Commodore was taking.

When he turned back to Erinn and Carmon, Thomas was noticeably calmer. His voice however was thick with indignation and simmering anger. "Fleet intelligence knew you were restoring the Nova and Equinox to space-faring status. You technically own those hulks. Civilian-fit Defenders fetch a good price on the open market. All we were waiting for was paperwork to authorize their relaunch. However, restoring them to full Fleet operational status without permission, even minus the munitions, is ridiculously illegal."

Thomas paused, dropping the crumpled page onto one of the up-lit tables. His now open hand gestured to one of the largest three dimension pieces sitting on the tables. It was a scaled replica of an old Jupiter-class Battlestar sitting in what looked like a skeletal cradle. "But then," he seethed, a vein starting to pop out just above his right temple, "Then you went and started restoring the Horizon, a decommissioned Battlestar! That ship belongs to the Colonial Fleet and no one else. The sheer audacity of working on that ship without authorization is only surpassed by your doing it with no one knowing." Thomas's last word was punctuated by the thud of an index finger forcibly impacting the metal rim of that up-lit table.

Commodore Deser took a breath and then leveled a withering glare directly at Erinn. "Now, Director Sharp, Carmon, choose your words carefully and quickly."

"The ships are yours," Erinn started, ignoring a sideways glance from Carmon. To her credit, her demeanor was calm, cool, and collected if not slightly subdued from the chewing out she was receiving. "We have heard how bad it is getting out there. Fleet is going to need every ship it can muster, even the ridiculously illegal ones."

The look between Carmon and Erinn was not lost on Thomas nor was the likely implication. "Which ships were you supposed to hold back and why?" he asked, the anger in his voice thinning marginally with curiosity.

"As many as we could," Erinn replied, her body standing tall and stiffly now nearly at attention, "but we were supposed to protect the Horizon at all costs. People have feared the Cylons returning for decades. Some of us took the initiative to prepare for it. The Horizon would be a lifeboat and strong defensive asset if the worst happened. With an attack this severe, pooling all the USRC and Fleet resources on this base still might not be enough to launch it before we are hit. There was no way to pre-install external launch boosters without tipping our hand. We also never ran projections on an attack this bad."

Erinn paused, swallowing hard before continuing. "Sir, all I can do now is beg you to take as many personnel and their families as you can fit on the transports. I take full responsibility for those ships and am prepared to remain in the base's brig if it saves their lives. None of our Reservists knew."

"Erinn, your family..." Carmon said quietly next to her. While he had been silent until now, the sadness on his face likely compelled that small outburst.

"Not now Carmon," Erinn hissed, turning just enough to glare at him for a moment. The look was only emphasized by the faintest hint of her eyes starting to burn.

Thomas's eyes were narrowed as he starred hard at both of the people before him. He opened his mouth once, closed it, and then snatched the crumpled piece of paper up from the table. Quick strides once again had him moving through the room, stopping directly in front of the two USRC personnel.

"This assessment is complete?" Thomas asked, holding up the crumpled paper in his hand. "No other surprises out there in my yard?"

"It is complete sir," Erinn replied smartly, trying not to pull herself back from his proximity.

"Then you don't get off as easy as the brig," he said while regarding Erinn, his tone professional but still clearly angered. "All former Fleet members on this base, including you, are recalled to active duty effective immediately. I need every hand. Also, you are hereby given a field promotion to Lieutenant Colonel and to report to the Charger as it's new XO."

Erinn's eyes flew wide as Thomas continued. "You are ordered to personally oversee restoration of its old jump drives to operational status. If successful, you will then protect this base at all costs on that cruiser. Under no circumstances but a direct order from me are you allowed to leave the Charger. That is my price for your request. Understood?"

"Y...yes sir!" Erinn stammered, a look of almost utter disbelief on her face.

"As for you Carmon," Commodore Deser said, turning to the other man standing in the room. "Tell the ADO to coordinate with Major Dalton for deployment of USRC personnel to our new ships. There is a fleet out there that needs manned. Then start emergency evacuation of all your administrative staff and non-personnel to the transports."

"Yes Thomas," Carmon responded then grimaced when he realized he had used the Commodore's first name.

The paper in the Thomas's hand crinkled audibly again while the two men looked to each other. The Commodore finished saying simply, "It will be a warm day on Aquaria before you and I drink together again, Orous."

"Dismissed!" Thomas growled, brushing between both of them. He grabbed the door handle and pulled it open roughly, the blinds on the thick wall shaking noticeably.

Erinn and Carmon exchanged short looks of disbelief after turning to each other. Erinn leaned back against one of the tables for support, hands tightly gripping the metal rim that surrounded it for support.

"He is an interesting man," Carmon said, a sad smile on his face. "I am going to miss our conversations."

"Focus on living through the day," Erinn retorted, visibly trying to keep the pace of her breathing calm. "If the Cylon don't kill us, he still might."

"If we do not see each other again, good luck Colonel," he replied, turning to head for the door. "All of humanity could use some today."

Carmon Orous strode out of the map room into the main command room now bustling with activity. People were moving in and out of the room, moving between desks, or relaying orders. The Commodore was standing just before the entrance to the traffic control room, giving orders to officers in both rooms to "launch every fighter that can shoot". Carmon gave the hurried people little attention, stopping briefly at an open desk to make two phone calls. When complete he walked between the desks and out through one of the room's main doors.

His passage through various gun metal gray corridors filled with moving personnel and hissing oxygen filters was accompanied by the occasional base-wide announcement that he was ignoring. He had a destination in mind and would not be dissuaded from it. A bulkhead door and set of stairs brought him to his goal, an empty observation room above the moon's surface lined with windows. The far wall faced towards one of the ship-fields, low mountains clearly visible in the distance beyond small and large hulks. It could almost be considered beautiful.

"...If it wasn't so morose."

Carmon stopped at his inner monologue being said aloud. His brow furrowed when he realized that was not his voice. He turned to find another man that he had not heard enter leaning against the windows on the far wall.

"Oh, that was worth it. The look on your face," snarked the other man, a half-smirk pulling at his clean shaven face. He was tall and toned with unusually long brown hair almost down to his shoulders. For clothing he was wearing a loose-fitting button-down short sleeve red shirt with large brown flowers seemingly printed at random on it, airy canvas khaki pants, a corded leather belt, and leather stringed sandals.

Carmon composed himself, layering on a genuine looking smile. He let his voice fall back into a well practiced rhythm not unlike someone quoting scripture from memory. "A testament to mankind's strengths and fragility," he said back. "Ships to protect the lives within while destroying those before them."

The other man's face pulled into a full smirk as he cast off the wall. "It wasn't a lucky guess but nice attempt at downplaying. I would expect nothing less in the performance of a Number Two on a mission. Or do you prefer Leoben? A few of your line even scuffled over who could keep that name."

That statement had Carmon tense up imperceptibly.

"But where are my manners," the other man continued. "My name is Daniel. It is a pleasure to finally meet you Carmon though I would have preferred meeting under other circumstances. And you can relax you know. I have no intention of outing you to those on this base."

Carmon regarded Daniel warily, turning fully towards him. He was also slowly shifting to the side, lining his body and Daniel's up with the entrance stairwell. That would give him options depending on how this conversation went. "That may be your name but who are you?" he asked.

"A messenger," Daniel smiled to Carmon, hands pushing down into the pockets of his khaki pants. "Your devotion to God has been noticed. Given what is about to happen, I have been sent here to give you a warning."

"You could be lying," Carmon responded, his weight now shifted to one foot if he decided to start running towards the other man.

"Of course I could," Daniel smiled back. "Such is prophecy. It is to be told. Belief is the choice of those that hear it."

Several moments of silence passed between the men before Daniel nodded and continued. "You have acknowledged before than both mankind and Cylons have souls. Yet here you are participating in the murder of _billions_. The sin you have already committed is unconscionable but you are about to commit to a truly fatal one. By staying in this room knowing it will be destroyed in the attack, you are committing suicide. That is a sin that will not be forgiven no matter how much you beg for forgiveness."

"If I was a Cylon," Carmon prodded, careful how he worded his statement, "Maybe I would not die. Maybe my consciousness would be transferred to another body when this one is destroyed."

"Because my wary friend," Daniel chuckled, "transferring data means copying and then deleting the original. While memories may be quantifiable data, the soul is not. That is why I am here to warn you. If you die here and now, another copy of you with your memories and a fresh soul will be created somewhere else to live out its life. Your soul however will be released and go to face judgment. I know I would be terrified to go before the All Mighty with so much blood on my hands, the last of which was my own."

Carmon physically jumped at the sound of an alert siren blaring through the base, his gaze glancing to the windows before going back to Carmon. Equally surprising he now found the room empty, no trace of the other man to be seen.

"Also, I would hurry if I was you," came the whispered sound of Daniel's voice from no where in particular. "Those transports are going to leave sometime."

Carmon looked around the room one more time still seeing no sign of the man. Out through the windows he could see Vipers taking off from the runways, their sleek shapes arcing up into the airless sky. His feet were moving now, carrying him towards the stairwell down into the base. Had his mind not been split in its focus, he might have felt all of the color having drained from his face. One part of his mind was contemplating if it was possible for a Cylon to go mad. The other was fiercely focused on the shortest root to one of the transports.

* * *

Author's Note:

If anyone reading this story is willing and interested, I am looking for an additional beta-reader. Details can be found in my profile. Thanks in advance.


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